Bound By Blood
by Saroo
Summary: Jack Sparrow was dead and his adventures were over. The only remnant of his legacy being his children, both branded with the sign of the sparrow at birth. Two twins, completely unsimilar, raised in different worlds, but bound by blood.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Part One

* * *

Winds howled and screeched as they ripped against the sides of the _Black Pearl_, tearing at the boards and swirling about, trying to grasp a soul to drag down to Davy Jones. It was a fearsome storm, a living gale, and a battle waged on the _Pearl's _decks right in the middle of it. It was a battle to the death; a battle between two Captains: Pirate and Commodore.

With a clash of lightening the figures of two men engaged in heavy battle was illuminated at the hull of the_ Pearl_. Two swords smashed against the other at the same moment before withdrawing and meeting again in a clash of sparks. Then the ship was once again shrouded in darkness and waves climbed over the sides of the ship as if the sea was wrapping her icy fingers around it. But the sea was not against the _Pearl,_ for no ship had ever been known to survive such a storm as this. And somehow it, along with the Commodore's vessel was staying afloat for this final battle.

"Give up, Sparrow!" Commodore Nelson bellowed above the scream of the winds. Rain tore at his clothes, whipping his face and stinging his eyes with the salty water. Tears ran freely and his hair flew about his face, making him appear a lunatic. Jack parried a blow from Nelson's sword. His eyes bore into the Commodore's through the dark and the rain, and he smiled foxily.

"Nay, Cap'n, should I surrender when we's having so much fun?" Jack cried over the commotion. He dodged a lunge, but the Commodore drove him back, closer towards the bowsprit where murky grey waves crashed and blew merging with the stinging rain. The Commodore's eyes were wide with madness and hate, tears seeping out from the stinging salty water and lips bared into an expression of carnal rage.

"You are a scoundrel, Sparrow!" He roared. "You're nothing but a bloody pirate, a rat of the ocean! Scourge of the earth, and by God, I hope to be the one to spear your worthless…"

Jack's eyes darkened and he flicked his slender blade swiftly, gouging open the Commodore's cheek. Crimson blood gushed from the wound and Nelson screamed in both pain and anger. He charged forward with such force and skill that Jack leapt onto the shuddering bowsprit, balancing booted feet upon the wood with agility. Nelson swung his blade, parrying and advancing until he too was on the narrow beam of wood, though more wobbly and unsteady. The two continued to battle, neither one advancing nor backing off. The Commodore's massive frame was shuddering with anger, Jack's slight one as coiled as a snake preparing to lunge. He watched the Commodore with glittering black eyes, assessing each drive and lunge, and parrying easily. The Commodore's patience was wearing thin.

The Commodore and Jack each gripped heavy ropes to keep from tumbling down into the depths of the sea, as the waves tossed the ship so violently that they would have fallen and been smashed into the hull of the ship without the ropes. One sudden streak of lightening ripped open the sky from horizon to above the black, angry clouds, making it appear day for one bright, white moment before again leaving them in darkness. The Commodore was weakening, his sweat mixing with rain and blood from his cheek and running off his body. He realized that he could not keep up with the pace much longer and shouted for his men. Jack snickered and sliced the Commodore's forearm with his sword, further igniting the larger mans anger. He would not say it, but he was a coward, and Jack's unending energy was sure to be his dimise.

Jack was the last pirate left. His crew had been overpowered by the brute numbers of the Commodore's crew and been killed and washed away into the ocean, their blood staining the boards of the _Pearl, _and it was as though she knew it, for her wood groaned and moaned with grief beneath them. Jack knew that the Commodore would never allow him to battle this square, and he would be finished off by his lackeys, but he continued to fight on, intent on finishing the duel, focused on winning for the sake of his crew, for the sake of the _Pearl, _and especially for the sake of his treasure in his cabin. The last thing in the world that mattered to him. A pain wrenched his heart as he thought of what might happen to his 'treasure' after his death, surely the Commodore wasn't as cruel to... He shook away the thoughts and parried yet another blow from the weakening Commodore.

The remaining officers that had not been killed by Jack's crew or swept off the sides of the ship by the roaring waves struggled to the front of the ship to assist their captain. None of them appeared unscathed and they too were filled with hatred for the bloody pirate, Sparrow. The Commodore stepped down from the bowsprit as his first mate trained a pistol on Jack, who tossed his sword reluctantly onto the deck off his ship. He gazed beyond them, towards his cabin, where he heard the cries of his 'treasure', his fists clenched till' his knuckles were stretched white.

"Surrender, Captain Jack Sparrow!" Nelson's first mate yelled over the screams of the waves and sea. The Commodore was furious, he could wait no longer for the death of his foe, and once Jack released his grip on the rope to return to the deck he brought all his weight down upon the bowsprit, and Jack's feet lost their balance on the slippery pole and he plummeted down, down into the merciless depths of the sea, who swallowed him, and no splash sounded. The Commodore looked for his body hastily over the edge, his maddened eyes scanning the water for the sign of that which had haunted him for over half of his life. He saw nothing. The howling of the storm died down a bit, and the waves eased, allowing the officers to speak once more. The Captain ordered the ship searched for valuables, and made his way to the Captain's former cabin. Water swirled around his feet and he stopped, realizing the ship was sinking. A blast from his ship's cannons earlier must have torn a hole in the ship. He informed his men and sloshed through water to the cabin, determined to take a souvenir for his victory. The water was almost up to his knee's when he reached the cabin and pushed open the swinging door. His eyes widened.

Two smoky blue eyes stared into his, eyes filled with horror and fear. A little girl, no more than four years old clung to a sea chest, hair plastered around her round little face and sobs shaking her body. She looked just like… A blast of icy wind hit the Commodore's face and he realized that the water was pouring in faster from a gaping hole in the wall, strangely a long ripped piece of fabric hung on a sharp, torn board and blew in the wind, as if a person had slipped out. Grabbing the little girl who howled at his touch, and he exited the cabin and ordered his crew to board their ship and to cast off.

Commodore Nelson watched from the safety of his ship as the _'Black Pearl' _finally sank. His victory over Sparrow was complete, as was his revenge. He had finally taken back what was rightfully his. He looked down at the feather-light person shaking in his arms and smiled. _'Sparrow's daughter… no, my daughter, she would have been mine if Lillian had…' _He frowned as he heard what the little girl was saying. She was crying for her daddy. _'Blast it!' _

"I am your father now," He spoke sternly to the little girl, setting her down upon the deck. She immediately clung to the railing of the boat and reached out own chubby little hand to where the _Pearl _had last been seen. He snatched her wailing body back up, thoroughly disgusted with her display of affection over that...Sparrow... and commanded his steward to take her down to his cabin and see that she didn't catch a cold. His steward saluted and took her down below. Leaving the Commodore to glare out at the horizon, cursing the waters that Sparrow had defiled, and promising himself that he would make sure that the last thing Sparrow had possessed was made his own. This was his daughter, his possesion now. Jack Sparrow's pride and treasure was now his.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

* * *

"**_O_**h no, Missus Tipton, heavens no—why the very thought of it! I should swoon." Exclaimed Henrietta Vicksburg dramatically, fanning herself vigorously with her delicately painted fan. Her blue eyes blinked and her iron-curled hair bobbed about her head in agreement. I assumed a look of mock interest, the Hawkesbury-look of interest, the selfsame look that I have honed to perfection for two years; which, by the way, made me feel sick to my stomach every time I employed the use of it. And unfortunately, that was too often for comfort. 

"I'm quite certain, Miss. Vicksburg," Drawled Missus Tipton with half-lidded eyes and an expression of dignity upon her angular and prim-mouthed face. "That you should be all right, should you ever be put through the 'indignity' of wearing the same dress to a social event twice."

"Oh!" Cried Henrietta, utterly aghast at the prospect, "I would be mortified, no, indeed, Missus Tipton, I should _never _survive such an ordeal!"

I snort in disbelief, and then quickly assume careful observation of the porcelain teacup I'm holding daintily as Missus Tipton glares at me harshly. Poor, oblivious Henrietta rattles on, blabbering endlessly about her drone life, as if a soul cared. Well, I don't, anyway.

"… And of course, I was mortified at this! Can you believe it, my dear Miss Nelson, that our very own darling, Mr. Peterson could be humiliated in front of the whole party? My! Tea all down his darling naval uniform—it was quite tragic, do you not agree, Miss Nelson?"

I was sipping my tea, gazing about the tea room in boredom, trying to find something, anything entertaining. I was gazing out the window of the tea room when I replied, and it was without thought. For I told Henrietta that dear Mr. Peterson didn't earn his uniform to start with, his father _paid _for his rank as midshipmen in the navy, so I didn't care a whit if it was ruined, because he hadn't earned it and probably never would… and furthermore…

I stopped my heated reply to my Henrietta as all the rules of propriety came rushing back upon me with startling gravity, and I realized with burning ears that the delicate chatter of other girls in the tearoom had died away in my rant, and everyone was staring at me in shock… and as Henrietta would have put it: _utter mortification! _

"Oh dear…" I mumbled. Missus Tipton's face was ablaze with righteous anger and with a cursory nod of the head to poor, baffled Henrietta; she whipped out of her chair and removed me from the room by my ear. There it was again, me making a muddle of things. It discouraged me, yet did not surprise. I had known for a long while now that I am a bad luck penny, and this certainly was not the first of events to point out so.

The repercussion of my unlawful manner at tea is to be no supper for me, and I'm to miss my equestrian class. To the majority of girls attending Hawkesbury, missing equestrian would be no horrible trial, as they hate to muss their finery and to smell the beasts. But to me it's terrible, because equestrian happens to be the only class in which I am allowed outside. And I love to ride. That is why Mistress Lemmon decided to take it away, but I brought it on myself with my big, stupid mouth, so I'll just have to endure it.

Winifred Dooley, my best and only friend at Hawkesbury visited me in my isolation, but all she did was babble and chatter on about the upcoming ball at the Kensington's and the dress she was having made for it. It got old very quickly, especially after hearing the exact same words coming out of every other mouth of the girls at Hawkesbury for the past two weeks.

"…it's a lovely blue color! I daresay it shall best every dress there, except perhaps Melinda's dress, but she always has the nicest gown so…" Winnie prattles on; I close my eyes in restraint and count to ten.

"Winnie!"

"… and I'm quite sure that if Belle wears another pink crepe I shall just have to…"

"Winnie, I don't care, don't care, don't care, I simply do not care! Now please, shut up before you drive away my last remnant of sanity!" I burst out before I can stop myself. Winnie's chatter dies away and she looks at me with an expression of hurt in her brown eyes.

"O-Oh," She says lamely.

"I'm sorry, Winnie." I say feeling a bit guilty. "I don't care about the Kensington's, would you rather talk about something el—"

"No, that is quite all right, Regina." Winnie says suddenly, her lips pressed firmly together as she stands up and smoothes out her rustling skirts. I watch her walk to the door stiffly and before exiting she turns to me.

"You know, I tried to be your friend, Regina. Really I did. Even when," Winnie stops and seems as if she might change her mind, but then she looks resolved again. "Even when everyone told me you were odd and didn't belong here. I was your friend, but now I am not. You are not, in any shape or fashion, a lady. I realize that now, and I will not consort with company that will reflect off me in such a way."

I am shocked and my mouth hangs open in disbelief. Whatever could have inspired such a horrible speech from Winnie? I didn't realize telling her to shut up would result in this. And I—didn't know people thought that way about me. I feel my temper rising and my jaw clamps shut in anger.

"Goodbye, Regina. You will not hear from me again." And with that Winnie exits my room, and suddenly the day seems a whole lot grimmer and uglier.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: In case I have readers and in case they are wondering, I did delete most of the chapters. Mainly because of the mistakes, and because I decided to change the plot a bit; also, Melissa Shanks is now known as Victoria Kensington, and she may act a bit different. Reviews equal updates! **

**-Saroo **

**Chapter Two**

_Letters From Father_

I sit in my room glumly, staring out the window as dense sheets of monotonous rain obscure the scenery. My mood is as foul as the weather, for Victoria Kensington has made it clear to the entire student body of Hawkesbury that I am not to be spoken to, mingled with, and or acknowledged in any fashion. Obviously Winnie had been pulled aside and informed of this, and my shouting at her clearly gave her a reason to withdraw from my company; how splendid. I brought it upon myself.

One thing Winnie had said to me remains in my memory quite clearly, the bit about my unladylike-ness, which while does not surprise me in the least, does sting. I suppose it is true, I am most certainly the least ladylike of all the Hawkesbury girls, and I do happen to resemble a Warf rat in some respects. My hair is a mess of black curls swept atop my head miserably and tumbling about, and my eyes are not the fashionable baby-blue color, a sprightly green, or a chocolaty brown, rather a smoky navy-grey with no one definite color, rather a muddle of many. My nose is dainty, but slightly turned up at the end and sprinkled liberally with freckles. My figure, if you could call it so, is almost non-existent and I'm a bit vertically challenged, being of five feet and two inches in height, and too skinny for fashion's tastes. Plumpness is valued. But I try not to be vain, and usually avoid any reminder of these facts.

I grow weary of watching the endless succession of rain, and move to my writing desk to pull out the letters Father has sent me. He is out at sea again, on his last voyage, as he begins to grow old and feeble in his years. Vladimir Castalion, a very rich and very arrogant Spanish merchant has taken Father on as a special guest aboard one of many of his vessels, to travel along the Barbary Coast; Father mailed me a letter before he left, telling me of his departure, and explaining that he had "_much business to discuss with Mr. Castalion, of which I will tell you when the time is right…" _ I doubted this was so, for Father never bothered to speak of his ventures with me before, but I just assumed he was trying to flatter, and never bothered again with regarding his brief letter of departure. Though now I withdrew his most recent crumpled letter dated a few months back, also from Father, and reread it.

_Dearest Daughter, _

I read aloud and then laughed, for his writing was wobbly and a blot of ink smudged the fine paper underneath the word _dearest_. I did not feel dear when the writer had not taken to time or effort to properly shape his letters or control his pen, even a smudge of drink had stained the bottom corner of the paper.

_I trust you are well and your studies are progressing rapidly, I will be glad to return from my journeys aboard the MARY CELESTE to find a well-turned, finely finished daughter._

And then with the first customary attention to me over with, he plunged away from the uncertain grounds of which he knew extraordinarily little and began to speak vaguely of some purchases he made, a few characters he met aboard the ship, and then began his usual round of praising Vladimir Castalion, as he did with every other of the five letters he had sent me in the eight months he had been away.

"… _Lord Castalion is a fine man, prosperous and generous, two traits that I find rarely coincide. I feel that you would greatly enjoy his company and if it agrees with you, my daughter, I would arrange a meeting between you and Lord Castalion, I believe you would find it very pleasant, for he is a wealthy man, and under the right circumstances, could greatly improve mine situation …"  
_

I reread the paragraph a couple times; feeling quite bothered by it and trying to discern it's exact meaning. Surely Father was not implying marriage to the man! That is completely ridiculous! Why, Father would be mad to assume that I would do such a thing to _'improve mine situation' _or his, I suppose. I'm sure it _would_ improve his situation vastly, but he must care a bit for me, otherwise he would not ship me off to a merchant likely forty years older than I.

Finding these thoughts uncomforting I stuffed the letters into the top drawer of my desk and poked at the hearth to draw the flames back to life, for the room had adapted a sudden chill and the crackling of the fire pushed back the thick silence that constantly enveloped it.

"The rain has stopped," I murmured to myself looking out the window and seeing only a couple of lone raindrops falling from the ledge above the window. Gloomy clouds were still huddled in the sky and blocking out the sunlight but I suddenly felt an urge to shake off the gloom of the day and decided to take a walk through the common. No one need know of it, and certainly I wouldn't be missed, not with Victoria Kensington's latest edict haven been passed, at least.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Terribly sorry it took me so long to update, my compooter is screwy. Anyway, I have made the most poo-ful discovery that totally spoilt the day for me. Some people are reading my story and aren't even bothering with an review! That is so insulting - reading equals reviews, peoples! You write for the reviews, it's the reward, and yet... here are some buggers who don't even honor that. Well, poo. That's what I say. Poo to you! I'm going to use that in my update, just for those sorts of people. **

**And for the dear ones, who do review, bless ya! I really appreciate it! Shout outs to: Pyra250 & Jackaroe! They rock. --Saroo**

Chapter Three

_Muddy Parasols_

The state of the streets are muggy and sodden, and did very little to improve my unhappy state of mind. It was not halfway through the common that I realized how utterly stupid my idea had been, because my flimsy shoes sunk down into the slippery mud and stuck themselves there. And while attempting to tug my feet free of the suctioning mud, my parasol slipped from my fingers, and was also eagerly devoured by the voracious puddles of mud, and was instantly dyed a very unappealing shade of dung, clinging to the delicate white lace and blackening the white ivory handle. Father would be vexed at my treatment of his presents.

"Bloody fine, this is!" I swore in irritation, tugging so fiercely at my feet that with a decidedly comical _POP _my feet came completely out of my shoes and I fell back in the puddle of muck with a splat. Globs of mud flew everywhere, splattering every clean surface of me: face, hair, and crisply-starched uniform. Mistress Lemmon will be thrilled. Of course Father would be informed. _'Fantastic.' _I thought, feeling the cold, wet mud sinking through my clothes and oozing over my skin.

I reached out and grabbed the handle of my parasol, using the end of it to pull myself up from the glop and wobbled awkwardly to my shoe-less feet, feeling terribly weighed down by my sodden, muddy clothes and hair, the latter of which had fallen about my face in the fall. The shoes were gone, lost somewhere in the slimy muddy puddles scattering the common, and there was no sense in looking for them now. Clouds were gathering in the sky again, and a distant rumble echoed across the sky, warning me of rain. As if rain would be any worse.

Scuttling miserably through the swampy common, I finally reached the cobblestone streets, and pattered along as quickly as I could, with globs of mud flying from my person as I moved. I felt like a Bog Monster, with wild hair flying and mud-sodden clothes clinging to my legs as I ran, or wobbled along, whatever you could call it. Hawkesbury loomed before me, its gloomy brick walls shadowing even more the closer I came. I was much too distracted with thoughts of how to get in unnoticed to bother with the sight of the carriages being driven to the stables, and after a hasty prayer that Mistress Lemmon was in bed with a headache I dashed through the front door, into the foyer and…

...froze with horror, eyes as wide as saucers, and breakfast suddenly attempting to escape my belly.

"**Miss _Nelson_!" **

My eyes slid shut as the very worst of my imagined scenarios became a reality. In the foyer a gathering of highly-respectable young gentlemen from the Hawkesbury School for Young Gentlemen stood in incredulous shock. Then someone chortled and was instantly elbowed in the ribs, by the sound of it. I bit my lip fiercely, and opened my eyes to see a white-faced, extremely irate Mistress Lemmon, whose lips were so tightly pinched together they were barely visible. Her eyes seemed to signal my impending crucifiction. _'Ohh, Lord...' _

Today was the tea party. Every month Mistress Lemmon would invite a guest or guests over for tea, to test her student's behavior and refinement. The exact date was never the same, as to see her students act without former preparation. My heart hammered in my chest wildly, and the silence was almost unbearable. The only sound was the plopping of mud from my skirts onto the marble flooring.

"_... I told you she's barbaric!" _A whispered voice broke the thick silence, and my cheeks flushed hotly, with more anger than embarrassment. It was Victoria who had spoken, I recognized her familiar voice, and obviously many others had as well. Some Hawkesbury "gentleman" guffawed in quite the unrefined manner, and I felt the prickle of their gazes on me, but I only looked at my stocking-covered toes hotly. It was then that I realized the wet mud had dampened my skirts so that they clung indecently to my legs, inspiring their staring. I then learned a whole new meaning of "embarrassment", and my former blush was overshadowed by the blaze of color that then lit up my face. Mistress Lemmon must have realized this also for with a hurried excuse to her guests she grabbed my arm fiercely and hustled me from the room, sharply reprimanding me and ordering me to change into something clean and decent and join everyone else in the tea room, reminding me that I would be dealt with later. With a burning face and bruised pride I hurried up the stairs to my room.

After I had made myself "presentable" in an itchy cotton dress with a high-neckline and long sleeves (the winter uniform, as it was the only other I owned) and repined my hair in my usual sloppy twist with escapee curls dangling about my face, I rushed down the halls and stairs to the foyer, further tardiness would only worsen my punishments.

As I reached the doors to the tea room, I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Twisting the door handle gingerly, I entered the room. My resolve to appear nonchalant instantly dissolved as the faces of my fellow classmates and young men glanced up at me, some eyes haughty, others amused, most of them curious. I evaded all the stares and was directed to my table by Missus Tipton, eyes lowered as I sat, and then gulped. I was at Victoria Kensington's table, and her death glare was burning into my forehead almost tangibly. What did I ever do to her, anyway? Besides taking away her spotlight momentarily to make myself look like an idiot...

"Good afternoon, Miss Nelson."

I looked across the table hesitantly, over the dainty flower arrangement to see a haughtily handsome countenance, gazing at me intently. I didn't recognize him, but returned the rude stare with a look of disinterest and mumbled back the 'niceities' with little enthusiasm. This seemed to disturb the man, as if he were unused to anything other than adoring reverence from the female sex, and he instantly turned to Victoria, who obviously was quite enamored with him, and thus more comfortable for his egotistical pride. I snorted cynically.

"Miss Kensington, I have heard _so _much of your ball, in celebration of your sixteenth birthday, am I correct?"

"Why, yes. _Anthony_--I mean, Mr. Livingston." Victoria said eagerly, her blue eyes wide with flirtation and then she produced a perfectly manufactured blush at her "slip of the tongue" and smiled slyly. And of course, being male, _Annnthony _accepted the preposterous display with a sheepish grin.

It's all utterly revolting, if you ask me. My disgust must have shown on my face for the other young man at the table, a lad with quiet brown eyes and slick dark hair raised his eyebrows, and I slipped on the Hawkesbury-look, the affected appearance of a girl a bit addled in the head. Somehow, I doubted it made me appear "finished" at all, but the Mistress certainly thought it did. If it was 'finished' that the look made me, then it must surely be a brain-washed sort of finished.

"I received your invitation last Tuesday," continued Anthony Livingston. "It looks to be a wonderful affair."

"Oh, Mr. Livingston," giggled one of Victoria's disciples, Claire Pfeiffer, as if something incredibly clever had been said. "Victoria's ball is to be the event of the season!"

"Oh, certainly not _all _that, dear," replied Victoria with another blush and the appearance of modesty. How could she do it? She should become an actress, she'd make a splendid actress, I thought to myself incredulously I noticed Anthony watching my expression as he conversed with Victoria as if looking for my approval (why, I daresay I'll never know), and her eyes narrowed, so she must have noticed as well.

"Did you enjoy your afternoon stroll through the muck, Miss Nelson?" questioned Anthony casually with a smug sort of grin. I flushed brightly, with more anger than embarrassment... the twit! Why'd he have to go and bring it up, everyone had appeared to have forgotten? The other lad at the table looked interested in my answer, and a spark of amusement lighted in his eyes. Well sod off, twit number two, I'm not your entertainment monkey. I looked at Victoria, and she only looked extremely displeased to have the conversation suddenly veered away from her, and Claire was oblivious to the entire conversation, only staring reverently at Anthony with a stupid grin on her face.

"Certainly," I finally retorted hotly, though controlling the real heat of my anger with a small amount of restraint. "If_ 'strolling through the muck' _were to keep me away from company such as yours for any short amount of time, I should be very happy to do so." The words left my mouth in a flurry before I could stop them, and once freed I clamped my mouth shut and glared at my untouched cup of tea. It was cold. Anthony's smile froze on his face.

"My Lord! Miss Nelson, do you have no restraint!" shrieked Victoria in retaliation of her dear Anthony's assault.

"No, I'm afraid not." I muttered, stirring a lump of sugar into my cooling tea.

"I--well, I'm quite surprised." announced Anthony, his countenance firmly back in place. "I hope I did not offend."

"Certainly not, a gentleman such as yourself is incapable of doing anything of the sort." _'Oh, great, Regina, just dig yourself in deeper and deeper, why don't you!' _

Anthony's face reddened. "I never in all my-- Miss Nelson, I must ask that you apologize. Your manner of speaking to me is disrespectful and completely unladylike!"

_'Blast! Even the twit says so. I guess I _am_ hopeless in that respect...'  
_With a sigh I stopped stirring my tea, and looked up at Anthony with an utterly bored and yet saucy expression, and then told him in a clear and yet meaningful voice the most profound thing I could possibly think of at the moment:

"Poo to you, mister. Poo to you."

**Goosh, I love to say that. **


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

_Consequences_

I sat nervously in Mistress Lemmon's office, feet swinging in the chair and teeth chewing on bottom lip in habitual anxiety. My heart hammered inside my chest despite my frail intentions to be strong, and my stomach felt queasy, the kind of wobbling you feel in your innards when you know you've done something and you're in deep muck. Let's just say, I had worked myself up to quite a level of distraction.

The door swung with a squeaky groan on its hinges, and my heart rate increased rapidly, I could hear my pulse pounding against my ears. _'Father will be raging—Oh Lord! I'm in for it now… Mistress will stripe my bum red and white and I'll never be able to sit again, Oh L—' _

"Miss Nelson,"

I almost fainted, black swam before my eyes momentarily before everything cleared and I looked up into the stern countenance of Mistress Lemmon, who had the tightest expression I had ever seen stretched across her thin face.

I opened my mouth to reply, but all that came out was a croak. I swallowed, and then tried again, attempting to still my runaway heart. "Y-Yes,"

Mistress Lemmon moved across the plush carpet and onto the hardwood flooring, hard heels clacking against the wood, steely eyes trained on me with constrained disapproval. She finally seated herself behind the tall mahogany desk and folded her thin, boney hands in her lap. The room was dark, thick curtains drawn all the way shut over massive windows, except for a small open slit in the middle. The only light was a few pale lines of grey slinking in from outside, and the warm orangey-yellow crackling light from the fire on the other side of the dark room. Everything was silent; the only sound was the pounding of my heart, the crackles of the fire, and the steady _'tick tock' _of the grandfather clock towering above Mistress Lemmon's head. Then she spoke, and I flinched despite myself.

"Miss Nelson, do you know why you're here?"

I blinked, looked down at my toes and wetted my dry lips. "I've dishonored the Hawkesbury name, spoken out of turn, insulted a gentleman and tossed a cup of tea in his face before storming from the room… um… in an unladylike fashion, I suppose, muddied myself and the foyer, left without an escort… and… oh yes, and there was also the time when I tripped Eliza Heller into horse manure because she called me a ratty slut and I called her a bloody—"

"MISS NELSON!"

I stopped, staring down at my hands meekly, realizing that I was only making things worse for myself. "Sorry…"

"That is _not_ what I mean – I'm talking about here, this Academy, to start with."

"Oh, well, I suppose because my father enrolled me."

"Yes, of course. But more importantly you are here because you are from a respected and wealthy family. We accept only the richest, noblest girls, and expect them to be a credit to our name." She paused, gazing at me sternly until I looked away in embarrassment at my unsuitabilty.

"I suppose you'll whip me now, Mistress?" I say in a resolved sort of manner, resigning myself to the punishment, I deserve it, I know.

"No." Mistress Lemmon replied stiffly.

"No?"

"Our girls are required to be respectable young ladies. They are expected to be credits to us, this facility," She paused to take a deep breath and smooth her primly starched skirts, and I processed what she was saying, what she was getting at.

"I run a highly esteemed establishment, Miss Nelson, and you're blatant disregard for its rules and regulations are unavoidable inexcusable. You have been here for -- almost five years, I think, and they have been questionable years. I'm sorry you were unable to adapt to this school, but I will not lower my expectations for anyone."

My eyes widened at what she was saying, her cold words swirling around in my head, refusing to process, to settle so I could determine what she meant. Was I being...? Is it that I'm…?

"Your expulsion papers, Miss Nelson, will be archived and copies sent to your father."

I couldn't speak for lack of words. But decorum and propriety, so instilled and beaten and seared into my brain from years at Hawkesbury rushed at me, taking over and I pasted on the Hawkesbury look, rising from my chair as she did, my shock so mountainous that my face was a blank web of confusion. I had been here for so long, it seemed, that it had felt I would never leave. I was not exactly happy at the Academy, but it was all that I had ever known than the cold manor of my father. The Hawkesbury cordiality was so deeply engrained in my system, my mind, that I did not speak out of turn for once, and I did not wail or blubber as I once had, but felt my emotions bottle inside me, my hands neatly clasp my skirts and my back straighten as if to balance a heavy encyclopedia on my head.

"You are dismissed, Miss Nelson. Please pack your things tonight, a driver will be arranged to escort you home to Boston tomorrow." Mistress Lemmon said sourly at last.

In an automatically polite curtsy, I turned and exited the room. Eyes stinging and calling myself every type of fool there was in the book.

* * *

**AN: And this is the closing update for my strike. Saroo **


End file.
